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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29937381">close to essence</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/NotusLethe/pseuds/NotusLethe'>NotusLethe</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magnus Archives (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>M/M, god i just want them to be okay, martin blackwood will not be okay, small sad plate of sadness, spoilers for 197, they are in love</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 23:06:59</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,720</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29937381</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/NotusLethe/pseuds/NotusLethe</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Spoilers for 197</p><p>Martin, Jon, and Basira walk back to London. Jon learns something.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>55</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>close to essence</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>"We can invest enormous time and energy in serious efforts to know another person,<br/>
but in the end, how close can we come to that person's essence?<br/>
We convince ourselves that we know the other person well,<br/>
but do we really know anything important about anyone?" - Haruki Murakami</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The crunch of dirt and gravel beneath their feet suffuses the air in the pervasive silence.  There's so much quiet, each little sigh can be heard like the percussive strike of a bass line. After an unknowable amount of time passes, Basira comes to an abrupt halt, narrowly avoiding a collision with the others.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She tilts her head back toward the scarred sky and then down again, rubbing at her forehead. "I am going to tie my shoe. It may take me a minute. You two should walk ahead, perhaps far enough that a quiet conversation couldn't be overheard. I'll catch up in a bit. Alright?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon scrunches his face in a frown. "We can wait for you-"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"</span>
  <em>
    <span>Of course</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Basira. Take your time." Martin grabs Jon's arm and pulls his unprotesting body along with him. He's still looking behind them as they leave Basira standing there, shaking her head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"She's not even wearing laces."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin laughs, a little hiccup of a thing, his wan face brightening for a moment. Even the pale stretched look of him is something precious, treasured. How long will it last. How can he preserve it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"God, I love you," Martin says, a wry smile following as he laces his fingers through Jon's.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I - I love you, too. Martin-"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"She was - she's giving us time. I guess Basira thinks we need to talk."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Ah."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They continue to walk, the gravel fading to dirt, still packed solidly enough that their footsteps make a noise, but shushed, anticipatory.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>All he can think about is the absolute everything he wants to say to Martin. To ask him. It's overwhelming. Of course he wants to discuss what just happened, what their options are, what they are going to do. But he also wants to ask Martin what his favorite flower is, has he ever broken a bone, what's his favorite place to visit, if he could live anywhere, where would it be, has he ever had a pet he seems to love animals, what pet name does he really </span>
  <em>
    <span>really</span>
  </em>
  <span> want to use for Jon, does he like the cold or the heat, what is his favorite memory, how does he get the strength to keep going with all that weight pushing him into the dirt-</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I'm sorry," Martin says, to his knees apparently, chin tucked to his chest.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"For going with Annabelle?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"What? No- I- no. We needed that." Martin laughs and it's nothing like before, bitter and torn at the edges with a whine of hysteria. "I'm sorry for… for being a complete arsehole. I begged you not to use your powers and then I got angry at you for </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> using them and - what a dick! Who even does that!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon stares.  He hadn't - well yes, Martin had said things that were hypocritical and cruel, but surely Jon implying that he would rule over the fear world as a better alternative than someone </span>
  <em>
    <span>else</span>
  </em>
  <span> ruling the fear world was, well, not great.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>People didn't usually apologize to him. And he knew why, of course. Sometimes, it was too much dealing with Jon - his quirks and habits and neuroses that made him insufferable. He'd known it since he was little, and this place had exacerbated the strain, made him even more annoying. He </span>
  <em>
    <span>knew</span>
  </em>
  <span> that, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Knows</span>
  </em>
  <span> it. Jon shakes his head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"No, it's- it's alright. You were right, and I'm sorry for-"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"No!" Martin lurches forward and wraps his large hands around Jon's face, his palms warm against Jon's cheeks, fingers stroking the loose hair at his temples. His eyes, a sage-green now snaked with slivers of gray, are wide and imploring. "No. Don't do that. You're not - you're not responsible for other people's mistakes against you. I was wrong, okay? Well - no, I was- I was right a little - but - I was wrong. You're doing your best and I'm not… I'm not used to, erm, to someone else trying to, ha, trying to take everything on. That's my job."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"It isn't. It isn't your job, Martin," Jon says, covering Martin's hands with his own. They are slightly sticky from the webs, but so so familiar. He thinks he's memorized the feeling, thinks he has it down, could recall it perfectly whenever he'd like, but does he? Could he remember this no matter what? Maybe. Best not to try it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin nods, forehead pressed to Jon's, the lank ends of his hair brushes the tops of his cheekbones. Martin pulls away, tugs him along. Their hands are entwined.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon sneaks glances at Martin. He's not being subtle and eventually one of Martin's eyebrows raises. He inhales deeply and turns his gaze out. "Why did you… why did you go with her? With Annabelle. You had to know it was a trap."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin grins. "I mean, yeah, of course it was a trap. She must've thought I was right stupid when I'd said I'd go." The grin falters, crumbles at the edges like a wall collapsing. "She asked me if I was more 'open-minded' now. She - god - she </span>
  <em>
    <span>knew</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Jon. She knew we were desperate, that we'd get to that point. And I knew I was bait. But I couldn't - you hurting yourself like that couldn't be the only way. I knew she wasn't a good person, or even a person, but I </span>
  <em>
    <span>know</span>
  </em>
  <span> the Web doesn't want to be trapped here. So whatever she offered would be benefitting her, the most probably, but we'd get something out of it too. If we could get something out of it, I thought… I thought 'maybe.' I thought 'I couldn't let that go without seeing if it might work.'"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon clenches his hand, their fingers pushed so close their bones fill the gaps, hard and inseparable. "It will work, her plan. Doing them both, simultaneously - it'll work. All that power will flow into the thing that's left."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"The tapes."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It's Jon's turn to smile, the sad sardonic thing that stretches across his mouth with an acrid smear. "What are the tapes, Martin? They're a recording, a facsimile of the real thing. Of </span>
  <em>
    <span>me.</span>
  </em>
  <span>"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You're not the only one on those tapes, it might-"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Maybe you'll be sucked in too. Maybe you'll have enough protection from the Lonely to withstand it. But the tapes are made up of everything, and I'm their living record. Belonging to something else might only make you more susceptible. We do what she says, and it will end this apocalypse. But we'll be dragged through that tear, Martin. We'll doom another world."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I- no, Jon. I won't - I won't let that happen."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You forbid it?" Jon says, trembling smile softening the blow. Martin rolls his eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Of course you'd say - </span>
  <em>
    <span>yes</span>
  </em>
  <span>, I forbid it." He sighs, stepping closer to Jon. "So, if we can't do that?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"We'd have to destroy all of it. Everything holding the system together."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin's words are barely a susurrus on the wind. "Including you."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"In-including. Yes, including me."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"No."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Martin-"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"</span>
  <em>
    <span>No.</span>
  </em>
  <span>" Tears stream from the corners of his eyes and Jon breaks, a resounding rend of the resolve inside him. He thumbs away one of the tracks as Martin swallows loudly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Martin, it might be the only way."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Well-" Martin clears his throat when it cracks. "We will just have to find another way, alright?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Alright," Jon says softly, his hand held so tight.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Their footsteps echo differently with the introduction of stone, cobbled streets. Approaching London.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Martin?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Hmm?" He's been tapping out something on Jon's wrist, the same mindless melody when he does a menial task. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"What, ah, what's your favorite pudding?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin darts a quick look at him, then laughs, a smile breaking over his face like the sunrise that this place has never seen. He brings up his free hand to cover his expression "It's - it's sticky toffee."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Sticky toffee?" A giggle burbles up without his consent. "</span>
  <em>
    <span>Sticky toffee?</span>
  </em>
  <span>"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I know, I know. It's what everyone- it's good! It's too much, usually. But I - well what do you like?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon gives a noncommittal shrug. "I don't really- I'm not much for sweets."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin bumps him with his shoulder. "Yes you are. You keep candies in your desk drawer and eat them when you think no one's looking."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For a long moment, Jon is speechless. His mouth drops and he can't seem to muster up the drive to keep walking. The lack of movement on the other end of his hand makes Martin putter to a stop. He gives a small little grin, just the barest upturn at the corner of his mouth. The tears carved pale trails through the dirt they've never managed to completely cleanse.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"How…?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I, erm." And there, Martin blushes, something Jon's sure he hasn't seen in months. "I always noticed you Jon, you know that. Everything about you. I made sure to notice."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He's dragging Martin close, arms thrown around his neck, enfolding him so closely he can feel the press of every inhale. Martin's awkward arms find their place, sliding around Jon's back and they embrace. His breath won't catch, the gravity of what lay before them encroaching. Jon squeezes his eyes shut, tucking his face against the warm fabric on Martin's collarbone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sauntering steps clack along the ground, a slow approach. They separate.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Hello," Basira says, casual as anything, hands in her back pockets. "Finally got it all sorted."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon points. "You're in boots, Basira."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She doesn't even look down, an arched brow more declarative than her tone. "Am I? Imagine that."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin tucks Jon into the curve of his arm, an awkward and slanted gait, but nothing Jon would give up, no warmth he would deprive, no sighs he wouldn't hear.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They'll have to figure something out in the tunnels, where the Eye can't find them. And they'll have to be careful, so the Web can't decipher them. And Jon is sure, </span>
  <em>
    <span>so</span>
  </em>
  <span> sure, they aren't going to make it out of all this intact. And it isn't fair, and it isn't right. But at least - at </span>
  <em>
    <span>least</span>
  </em>
  <span>-</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He knows Martin's favorite pudding.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>i swear to god if we don't get a conversation before the end i will scream so i had to write something down.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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